


Happy Deductive Birthday

by Mithen



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Birthday, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-16
Updated: 2013-06-16
Packaged: 2017-12-15 04:18:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/845232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mithen/pseuds/Mithen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's John Watson's birthday, and everyone is gathered at 221B to celebrate.  Except John.  And Sherlock.  Of course.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Happy Deductive Birthday

221B Baker Street was aglow with lights, alive with music, and festooned with decorations. A "Happy Birthday, John" banner was draped over the mantel (the skull peeked out from under it, grinning). A cake with the same written on it was sitting on the table, surrounded by plates and utensils, adorned with candles yet unlit. The flat was filled with people talking: Mrs. Hudson, Greg Lestrade, Molly Hooper, Mike Stamford, even Mycroft Holmes, managing to look both nervous and supercilious at the same time. Everything was in place for a celebration.

Well, everything but one thing: John Watson himself.

And, of course, Sherlock Holmes.

"He said he'd be back soon?" Stamford said to Mrs. Hudson.

"Oh dear, yes. He got a text from Sherlock--" A chorus of groans, "--something he needed John's help with. He said it would be just a minute."

"And that was...three hours ago?" Stamford said.

Mrs. Hudson wilted onto the sofa, nodding. "I got another one from him about a half hour ago, saying he was sure he'd be back soon, and to just start without him."

"Making him skip his own birthday party?" Lestrade shook his head, gazing into the bubbles in his beer. "Sherlock, you bastard."

"He's probably forgotten it's John's birthday at all," Mycroft announced from the corner.

"'Why should I waste mental space remembering an arbitrary date?'" warbled Lestrade in an entirely unconvincing impression of Sherlock. He dropped back into his own voice. "But it's okay if he wastes all of _our_ time and energy."

"And after I spent all day airing this place out. I would just like him to not mix chemicals that are going to smell _too_ odious," said Mrs. Hudson. "Is that asking so much?"

"You should have seen what he did to our mother's favorite rose bush when he was ten," Mycroft said. Everyone looked at him. "Some things are too traumatic to retell," he said, shaking his head.

Molly sighed. "When my boyfriend gave me roses on Valentine's Day, Sherlock looked at them and told me that he was planning on breaking up with me within the week." Her shoulders drooped. "Also, that he had an unhealthy attachment to his mother, so it was perhaps just as well."

"Ouch," said Lestrade, and launched into his own story of how Sherlock had stolen evidence from a crime scene, which might not have been so bad except the evidence was a box of kittens. "Had to reassure some panicked children that their kitties weren't going to get dissected--try comforting a hysterical kid when you're half-wondering if he isn't vivisecting them as you speak!"

He tried to continue, but Mrs. Hudson talked over him with an agitated list of Things That Should Not Be Found in Washing Machines (although kittens did not make the list, to everyone's relief). Mycroft chimed in with a story of how Sherlock had made his fifth-grade teacher cry, while Molly noted diffidently that some people didn't exactly like to have _every_ bit of weight gain pointed out to them. Their voices rose as each tried to make their grievances heard, and the cacophony rose in pitch until--

"Could we _please_ talk about something other than Sherlock Holmes?" Mike Stamford said in the voice of one used to quelling classrooms. "For heaven's sake, does the man have to dominate _every_ conversation, even when he's not here?"

Silence fell for a moment. "You're absolutely right," Mycroft nodded.

"Sorry," said Lestrade sheepishly.

"We should know better," said Molly.

"And on _John's_ birthday, too," said Mrs. Hudson. "We should be focusing on him instead of how dreadful Sherlock can be."

"Exactly," said Stamford.

An awkward silence fell.

"So, the election results in Kyrgyzstan were rather intriguing, don't you think?" Mycroft said.

"How about that Arsenal-Man U game, huh?" said Lestrade.

"Anyone else a Downton Abbey fan?" ventured Molly.

"I just started a very nice needlework," said Mrs. Hudson.

Silence fell once more, and stretched on for some time. Everyone looked around the room. Things became awkward.

Finally, with an air of almost relief, Lestrade burst out: "Sherlock _bloody_ Holmes!" and everyone went back to complaining about him at full volume. Stamford rolled his eyes and gave up.

"I just hope he's got a good reason for making John miss his own party," Mrs. Hudson said.

"Probably needed someone to hold his scarf," Lestrade said.

**: : :**

The walls of the warehouse rotated slowly past John Watson's vision. "Kind of funny to think of Lestrade and Mycroft sitting in 221B wondering where the hell we are, when we could use their help here," said John.

"What an absurd thought." Sherlock's voice came from behind him, abstracted; he seemed unrattled by the fact that they were currently tied together and hanging from a hook. "Why on earth would Lestrade and Mycroft both be in our flat right now?"

John opened his mouth, closed it. "No reason."

"We don't need their help anyway," Sherlock said. "I don't want to share any of the fun with them."

 _"Fun?_ You call getting strung up by a serial killer like a side of beef _fun?"_ John would have been tempted to kick him, but in their current situation it would only have set them swinging dizzily.

"You don't?"

John had no good answer to that, so he kept his mouth closed.

The door banged open and their quarry entered the warehouse, smirking--a clean-cut, square-jawed man with dead eyes who had been dubbed "The Piñata Killer" by the press, for reasons John didn't want to think about right now. "I do like to watch them twist for a while," he said, sauntering toward them and twirling a cricket bat. "Before the party begins."

"Were you in a bit of a rush today?" Sherlock said. "Left your preferred bat at home?" At the murderer's expression, his shrug lifted John a fraction. "Any fool could see you're making do with an inferior substitute: your usual bat is made of English willow, of course. The one you're holding is made of Kashmir willow, and it hasn't even been oiled or knocked in yet." The killer frowned up at them as they turned lazily. "So: in a hurry this morning, probably because of the phone call that woke you up. Your mother, I presume. You really shouldn't let her dictate your wardrobe choices to you like that."

John rotated back to where he could see the man's face; his expression indicated that Sherlock had been smiling at him. John was getting used to how people looked when Sherlock gave them That Smile. "To hell with you," he muttered, reaching up to prod John's hip with the bat. John flinched away from it involuntarily.

"Oh come now, this is your first attempt with two victims simultaneously," Sherlock said. Only John would know him well enough to tell that his voice had risen just a touch in pitch and speed. "You're not even going to use your bat? I'm a trifle insulted to think you'd use something you just picked up at a shop this morning. And rather worried. John's skull is thicker than most, one might even call it dense. It would likely damage this shoddy bat and throw off your results. And you keep very careful records, don't you? Just like Mother taught you to."

The murderer scowled down at his bat. "No tricks from you if I go to get Bessie," he said. He dropped the bat with a clatter and moved toward them, and John sucked in a breath as he rummaged roughly through his coat pockets, extracting his keys and phone. He tossed them on a table nearby, grinning. "And you--" He twirled them around so Sherlock was facing him and John was away, reaching into Sherlock's pockets. "Here now, what's this?"

John peered over his shoulder to see the killer holding a small, square box, wrapped with red paper and a silver ribbon.

"I...have...no idea," Sherlock said blankly.

The man tossed it onto the table with John's keys and phone, then emptied Sherlock's pockets of his other items. "Wait right here," he muttered. "I'm going to enjoy using my bat on you."

The door slammed behind him.

"John," said Sherlock, "Why did I have a present in my pocket?"

John rolled his eyes to the ceiling. "Why don't you deduce it?"

Sherlock was silent for a moment as they continued to turn in circles together. Then he wriggled in his bonds to crane his head and peer down at John's hands. "Your fingernails," he said. "And the purple dress Mrs. Hudson was wearing this morning." He sniffed. "Your cologne--why, John," he exclaimed, sounding quite pleased with himself, "It's your birthday! And so that must be my birthday present to you!"

"You could have just _remembered_ that instead of deducing it," John grumbled.

"Not as much fun," said Sherlock. "Also, this way it doesn't take up permanent space on the hard drive. Now, let's see," he continued, "What would I have gotten for your birthday? Based on the wrapping paper and the size--ah yes, and that conversation we had last month--yes, I think I've got it."

"Sherlock? I'm pleased you've remembered my birthday--at last--but I think it might be better to focus on how to escape from the Piñata Killer."

"Are you ready to swing, John?"

"What?"

Sherlock pushed his body up against John's, setting them into a tiny arc of motion. "If I'm not wrong about what I got you--and I am very rarely wrong--your birthday present is the key to our escape. So if we can just reach it--"

After a moment, John started to rock as well, increasing their arc so that Sherlock's long legs could stretch out toward the little box.

**: : :**

The door burst open and Sherlock Holmes and John Watson tumbled into the Baker Street flat, covered with brick dust, soot, and blood ("Not ours," Sherlock chirped as everyone stared).

"It's a long story," said John. "But we made it! It's still my birthday!" He walked over to the cake, now half-eaten, and read out loud, " _\--ppy --thday --ohn!_ How nice, you shouldn't have." He started to cut himself a slice, ignoring Lestrade's _sotto voce_ agreement.

"It was a bit of a sticky wicket," said Sherlock, throwing himself on the couch and putting his hands behind his head, smirking at John's groan. "But with some help from my present to John, we managed. Really, it's amazing what one can accomplish with nothing but a stainless steel cock ring."

Silence fell in the flat. John froze with the piece of cake halfway to his mouth. Then he shook his head and took a bite. "Not precisely the way I would have chosen to come out, Sherlock," he said, "But it'll do."

He smiled at everyone staring at him. "This is delicious! Thank you for not eating it all."

**: : :**

"Were you really going to give me that gift in front of everyone?" John asked later as he cleaned the apartment.

Sherlock was picking up dirty plates and staring at them as though he had no idea what to do with them. "Well, you did say that it was about time we told everyone." He started to sort the plates by size and color.

"Not--that wasn't--well. I'll grant that. But Sherlock, I mean...you'd give me that right in front of Molly?"

Sherlock looked puzzled. "Why not? It's not her birthday; she can buy one of her own if she wants another so badly."

"That's not the reason why--wait, 'another'?"

Sherlock cast his eyes upward, thinking. "I'd say she owns four--maybe five already. Sex toys, I mean, not cock rings specifically," he clarified. "Second drawer of her bedroom dresser, on the left."

John released an exasperated breath. "Not the nightstand?" he tossed out.

Sherlock frowned thoughtfully, then beamed. "Oh! Yes, of course. You're absolutely right, John! How unusually clever for you." He pulled a twisted, blackened lump of metal that might have once been a ring from his pocket, gazing at in some chagrin. "I'm sorry your birthday present got destroyed."

John held up his hand and Sherlock tossed it over to him; he caught it out of the air. "I suppose our lives are probably an acceptable birthday gift." He turned it over in his hand for a moment, then put it down on a stack of papers like a paperweight. "Hungry?"

Sherlock made a sound of agreement. "The Indian place down the street is still open."

John grimaced. "Kashmiri cuisine? Maybe not tonight." Sherlock already had his coat on once more; he shrugged into his in turn. "How about a region of the world that doesn't have a good cricket team?"

Sherlock opened the door with a flourish. "Sushi?"

"Fantastic."


End file.
